Jeeps Are For Girls

Been looking through old pics of us from THAT summer.         

Swimming at the river

Jeeping HatsThat summer we played on borrowed time.

 Slipping away at the drop of a hat.

So far past caring what the other’s thought.

Texting each other, “What you doing?”

Was just our code for,”Come on, lets go!”

That summer we swam half naked in the river,

Dipping low as the canoers paddled on by.

Running on the beach slow motion, Bo Derrick style.

That summer we let the wind take our troubles

On the tail of the words we sang right out loud.

Laughing and crying and baring our souls

That summer my white jeep was our steed

We rode it slow and easy away from our cares.

 

That summer of 2011

That summer of freedom

I sure miss that summer

I miss us.

I call Girls Day (and Night)  

Jeepin girls

Jeeps are for girls

In my old jeep

                                                                                                                                                                                                      

When it’s Good and warm!

Pinky Swear???

Silly Boys Jeeps are for Girls


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A Lovely State of Somewhere In Between

 

Thirteen was a lovely state of somewhere in between. Lean and brown and nimble, on the edge of something unknown, precariously teetering between my childhood and my womanhood. I had nowhere to feel comfortable. No place seemed to totally claim me, not my past and certainly not my future. That familiar little, knocked kneed girl with the dirty face and tangled hair,too quickly, it seemed, was slipping from me. That summer I had noticed my cutoffs were beginning to hug in a new way. My tan legs showed curious new curves, forgetting the gangliness that ten and twelve had brought. Long dark hair had taken on a thick healthy glow and flowed as soft as silk whenever I tossed my head.

The neighbor boys had begun to snicker and elbow one another, speaking when they thought I couldn’t here. “Ha, you see our little tomboy lately? I think she’s wearing a bra!” They had started to call now in a different way, requesting long walks or slow bike rides on warm spring nights. Gone were evenings of ramping bikes or running races. Each one showed at my door, shyly and awkwardly, at different times to sit on my porch and chat.

Bewildered and incensed, I wanted to shout at them, to grab their necks and shake them awake.  Please, see me! I’m here, still just the girl next door, the same one who grew up beside you, who knows every little annoying thing about you. Don’t try to tease me or grab me or hold my hand. Leave me alone. I don’t want to grow up. But that certain power that turned my face to red also crept within my body, spreading its warmth.

Body emerging with softened angles and mysterious allure, I pedaled my bike on that old paper route and contemplated this certain power I dared not use. Men, grown and with hair all over their bodies were straining necks, whistling out their car windows and honking horns. In my girlishness, my face burned as I pedaled faster. I didn’t know this attention and yet it gave me a secret warm glow.

I broke a window that year, on my birthday. A mixture of feelings, I always seemed to be fighting lately, swirled through my mind and body. I was sad and lonely and I didn’t know why.  I wanted to run and play with my brother and his friends but I wanted too, to be grown up and experience a first real boyfriend. I didn’t want men to look and honk but it did feel nice. I threw that last newspaper a little too hard and slam! It broke the glass on that door. I burst into tears, how could this happen to me on my birthday? Mortified, I rubbed away those tears and stomped up to the door to apologize and offer to pay.

In my dark mood, I jumped from my bike and ran into my house. There in that bright warm kitchen, my favorite meal of spaghetti and chocolate cake and colorful, papered presents awaited. There too, my big sis, Amy and her little babe, Laura, who I often babysat. I opened my presents and found things a thirteen year old would appreciate; perfume, cool colored undies with the days of the week printed on them, a pair of jeans with a sweet design on the pocket. My family had gathered around the table and my sister had come home just for me. My mood shifted. I felt okay again, comfortable again, there with my  family’s love showering around me.

I hung there, in that lovely state of somewhere in between, for at least another year. I learned things, secret things that you just come to know. Things that I now know happen naturally and sweetly. The real power of a woman, the true heart of men, all of those things were far ahead. But that year, that year I got a little glimpse of what was to be. And so it was, as easy as a baby’s sigh, with my family’s love there to steady me, I set aside my little girl ways. I began to move gently and gratefully into my own womanhood.

When I Was 12

Stevie Nicks

Stevie Nicks (Photo credit: Eva Rinaldi Celebrity and Live Music Photographer)

Sitting at my laptop on a snowy day off work. Delicious words whirl and twirl through my head but how to put them on paper for you all to enjoy? Jamming to Pandora gets my memories stirring. How creative was Fleetwood Mac and heck, all of the entertainers of the 70’s! Maybe it’s just my age showing, maybe I”m getting old and think that everything from my era is the best. Maybe but maybe it’s just the truth.

Rhiannon by Stevie Nicks of Fleetwood Mac now pours from my laptop speakers. On it’s lyrics floats a starry summer night of mine,  sitting around the campfire in our backyard. I had a friend spending the night and we were camping out. The transistor was our companion and the fire was begging for some serious staring and contemplating life.

But alas, where was this so called friend. She informed me that she preferred to be in the house with my big sister, Peggy. All of twelve years old, I was  learning some hard life lessons this night. Some people really didn’t want to spend time with wonderful little old me! They just wanted  to get closer to one of my cool older siblings. Later I would find this especially true in the case of my older brother, Jeff,  but this first time it was my sister, Peg, 4 years my senior, that was the intent of my friend, Jess.

Jess was a couple years older then me, a tall, beautiful blondie with a carefree personality. Flattered by her attention to me I had quickly agreed to have her come for a camp out. I should have seen that coming I reprimanded myself as I turned up the radio and poked at the fire.

The fire sparked as I gave it some good hard jabs and I turned my face upwards towards the sky. The sparks floated up with a fierceness and died out with a small wisp of smoke.

“Rhiannon rings like a bell through the night
And wouldn’t you love to love her?
Takes through the sky like a bird in flight
And who will be her lover?” (Nicks).

Stevi Nicks rang out as the words  filled my mind and I kept my head up, shifting my gaze to the millions of stars twinkling above.

“All your life you’ve never seen a woman
Taken by the wind
Would you stay if she promised you Heaven?
Will you ever win?”(Nicks).

With the crackling of the fire,  sensual rhythm and mystical words filling my little girl senses, I felt something begin to stir inside me.

“She is like a cat in the dark
And then she is the darkness
She rules her life like a fine skylark
And when the sky is starless.”(Nicks).

I felt my sadness seeping out and something new began to dawn within me…a feeling I didn’t recognize. There was a mixture of wonderment, hope,  freedom. These words were speaking right to me. Some kind of a promise for my future was in her words, as if someone somewhere was calling to me and telling me good things were to come. Someone, someday would be mine and stay with me and be my forever.

While my sister, Peg and her boyfriend had clandestine meetings at Lake Siemer, I spent that summer laying in his car playing his 8 track player.  Fleetwood Mac, Blue Oyster Cult, Rod Stewart and whatever 8 track was available to me, I lay there with my eyes closed and drank them in. I believed them. I held on to the hope of them. I learned the lessons they taught.

Well, people, girlfriends, men, coworkers have come and gone and sometimes its my fault and some times not. Sometimes it’s mutual. But thirty some years later, I realize I’m still learning life’s hard lessons. Still, whenever I hear this song, I am slammed right back to that long ago summer night and the smell of fire and the huge huge sky full of millions of sparkling things that was my future.

When I was twelve, the word’s of the 70’s became my life.

 

 

 

Nicks,Stevie.  “Rhiannon” Music by Fleetwood Mac. (Rhiannon). Reprise. 1975.

Hello, My Old Friend

I have a very dear friend who comes to call at the most unexpected times.

When he does, he leaves behind such warmth and wonderful feelings.

It seems that I have all these small sunshiny memories that make me so happy. Such a small thing sunshine is but what a powerful impact.  How does the sun shine so beautifully despite the hustle and bustle of the world? How is it that we are so busy that we don’t take time to let it soak into our bones and soothe the frazzled edges?
My mind is filled with little memories of delightful visits from the sun.

The first would have to be a very little girl’s memory, my mother’s bedroom as she threw open the curtains and opened the windows.

The sun shone right through those windows into a room that usually stayed peacefully dark.

My father often slept during the day and patrolled nights as a state policeman. So it was very delightful to feel the sunshine in places it rarely was allowed to visit. What a magical place my parent’s bedroom became when it was spring cleaning day. I can’t explain the joy I felt as the sun blared in and I explored the corners that were usually dark. The busy busy of my mother and sisters vacuuming, scrubbing and dusting in that bright sunshine has left a sweet impression in my heart. Nothing big or important, just a bright little memory of a bright shine and clean white curtains that makes me happy..

One of my most favorites is also minute, it is only the sun shining on the back steps of my parents home.

The first days of summer vacation, found me, probably about ten or eleven, sitting on those concrete steps with it’s bumpy small stones massaging my bare feet.

The house quiet with my family still asleep. A moment, deliciously alone, just me and the world. I had slipped out to enjoy the smells of the hot concrete and the fresh cut grass, the sweet honeysuckle growing on the fence and I can still feel every little detail. I see the large beautifully scary, red velvet  ant making it’s way to the large crack in the steps. I feel the sun kissing me and really soaking into my winter weary bones. I raise my face to the sun and breath deeply. Summer was finally here. My life was ahead of me, no school for 3 months and a whole summer to bring on whatever adventures were heading my way.
This was truly, the first day of the rest of my life.

Years later another  memory, again of the sun.

Just a tiny house I rented from my sister. My two babies and I, newly divorced and on our own.

The house had just been cleaned up and my children were down for their naps. I had spread the beautiful pink quilt that my mother and Aunt LaVera had made for me upon my bed. The sun shone in and I basked in it’s warmth as I dabbled in my dreams and wrote about my life. The babies asleep in their own beds in that  same room, the sun shining in the window as I floated in that sweet shiny pink world. Safe, warm and oh, so cozy.
Life was good.

And again, the snow melting, the babies all grown, the sun bright and clear and begging to be felt as he splashed across my window sill.

Barging into my kitchen he lit up my  table.

Such melancholy I felt as I snapped a picture of him dancing there. I realized then that this was to be another beautiful memory. The day my oldest  friend  came to sit with me once again. This time at my own kitchen table, he made his appearance to shoo away the dreariness, to give a kiss of hope and cheer. I felt him whisper to me, ” Brighten up, old girl, winter is closing it’s door and spring is peering around the corner. ”   I sat there warmed by him and drank a toast of hot cocoa to the one friend that never fails me. “May I live to see you dawn, feel your caress upon me and watch you beautifully set for many more years, come what may!”
Here’s to you, Sunshine!

I love sunshine in my kitchen

Sweetness

My daughter, Allison and son, Levi about 14 yrs ago

Little boy laughter
Come wrestle with me
Sparkle my eyes
With mischievous glee.

Little girl giggle
Come dance with me
Twinkle my life
With love so free.

Laugh and giggle
Dance and wrestle
Sparkle and twinkle
Gleeful life, mischievous love.

~Sara Jane~

My Brother’s Love

Andy with me standing beside him on the basement steps

Andy 14 and Sara 16 in Arizona on vacation with mom and dad

Last night, Randy and I watched the 2012 Women’s Gymnastic Olympics at my younger brother, Andy’s house. He now owns that great old house we both grew up in on Main St. It was an enjoyable evening spent with my old companion, his wife, Cheryl and daughter, Abbie. The U.S.A. Women’s team truly are the Fabulous Fierce Five. When it was over Andy teasingly offered to walk us out to our car. Laughing, I told him I thought we could make it okay on our own. I chattered away to Randy as we walked out the back door to our car. I guess that Andy’s back porch has one more step then I remember, I skipped it and promptly and heavily fell to the concrete landing below. I rammed my head into his garage but what I knew instantly, was that my knees and hands were burning. Sure enough, upon further examination, I had small scrapes on my hand and one knee. But the most damage was done to my left knee. A huge area had a layer of skin totally and deeply removed.

Later, at home, with Randy to doctor and wait on me, the pain and ugly open sore took me back to another time my whole body was covered in scrapes. This incident also involved my old companion and brother, Andy. You see, Andy has always been a special friend to me. The youngest two of a busy family of twelve, we often turned to each other for companionship. There were many times I realized his affection for me as we grew up together but the summer of my sixteenth year, Andy gave me my first real gift of brotherly love and loyalty.

We lived in a small Illinois town but my dad also owned a small farm about a twenty minute drive east of us. We spent many a day on the farm with my dad. Sometimes we were put to work, walking beans, tending the huge acre garden, helping to plant and harvest, and feeding the animals. Between the work we usually always had some time to create adventures. After the work was finished, we could be found climbing the old “monkey trees” in the northern wood,s pausing to quench our thirsts at a little spring nearby. Some days we would dive into the pond and have mud fights. There were  many hours spent swinging on a vine over the creek to drop just as you swung over the deepest part of the swim hole. When our hunger became too powerful as it often did with my dad working long hours and the lunch time sandwiches devoured hours earlier, we would make our way to the huge garden my mother tended. There we could eat all the fresh, raw potatoes, green beans and tomatoes our little tummies could hold. Life was good, we had everything we needed right there on that farm miles from civilization.

As I entered my teenage years, I found I no longer had time to climb trees and wade creeks. I had my driver’s license and a job. “Places to go and things to see” as my mother was fond of saying. Besides, my younger confidante, at fourteen, had discovered girls and was spending  a huge amount of his time on the phone. I felt as if we were growing apart and often yearned for the excitement of our earlier, care free summers. So when he came to me one day begging me to take him and a few of his friends to the farm to ride three wheelers, I readily agreed.

Besides the chance to spend a little time with my brother, I could work on improving my tan while they rode. I slipped a pair of shorts on over my swim suit and donned a beat up pair of sneakers. The boys rode for a while as I dozed in the sun. I could hear the birds chirping and the distant drone of the three wheelers lulled me as  I relaxed, enjoying the peacefulness of my father’s farm. After about an hour the drone became louder and I realized the boys were getting near. I sat up and watched as they pulled all around me. They were heading to the creek to take a dip and wanted to know if I would join them. At sixteen, I was taking pride in becoming a young lady, but the tom boy in me could not pass up the chance to have some fun. Besides, it would allow me time with Andy like the good old days. I agreed with the stipulation that I could drive one of the ATV’s.

We headed down the dusty road towards the bottom lands that held the creek. I picked up speed and the others followed suit. Soon we began racing and because I was the oldest, I was determined to stay ahead of them all. As we made the curve and headed down the steep decline that descended into the bottoms, I felt myself starting to lose control. The speed, the instability of the three wheeler, and my inexperience came together at this moment and I panicked. Instead of applying the brakes, I pushed the gas lever. Totally out of control by now, the three wheeler roared up the steep embankment and flipped over on top of me back to the road. That huge machine and I went into a slide for about twenty five feet.

Andy and the boys were close behind me and were quick to pull the heavy machine off of me. My swim suit had slipped down and my body was scraped from head to toe on my left side. As I stood up, the pressure on my left foot left me wincing and instant pain shot from my ankle. I reached out my bloody right hand to one of the boys for support and, in horror, watched as two of my fingers crumbled with a bone protruding from one of them. At this gruesome sight, the boy paled and turned away, holding his mid section. Andy had turned his vehicle around by now and was quick to come to my rescue and assist me onto his three wheeler.

We had no phone on the farm back then and no way to contact anyone. The nearest neighbor lived a couple miles away. As we sped back to the pickup truck, my eye sight began to dim. I yelled to Andy and he grabbed my arm around him and screamed “Just hold on tight!” He delivered me safely to the truck and helped me into it. By now, I could not see at all. I could hear my little brother’s shaky voice pleading with me to “just hold on a little longer”.  For some reason I lost my ability to speak, I could hear Andy’s panicked voice begging me and praying, but I could not reply to reassure him. I had lost my sight, my speech and my mobility. I couldn’t even raise a hand to pat him. I remember trying unsuccessfully to pull out of the darkness and comfort my frightened rescuer. I could only sit and listen. The sudden loss of so much blood had caused my body to go in to shock.

Later at the hospital, the doctor told me what I already knew. I was very fortunate to have a brother who “kept his head” and acted quickly when the other’s had panicked. I was so proud of my little brother and remembered the tender love and concern I had felt as he came to my rescue. It was at that moment that I realized we were not losing each other. We would go our own ways and take different paths but this day my baby brother had shown  me how deeply implanted love had already become in our young hearts. That special closeness that had been ours in childhood would continue to follow us as we grew.

From Our Front Porch

It seems to me it should have had it’s own actual name, such a part of our lives it was. But we simply called it the “front porch”. Parts of our childhood played out for the whole town right there on that big old 10’x30′ front porch of our house on Main Street.  That old gray, wooden floor and us children became very intimate through the years. We knew it’s cracks and painted chips by heart. It welcomed us home every day when we returned from school and again as we threw our bags in the corner after our paper routes. We sat on it’s brick ledges and on the concrete tiers of the steps while friends gathered to hash out our plans of the day.  Like a very close, old friend, my goodness, what memories that old front porch has witnessed!  Hot summer nights found us seeking relief from the heat; five dirty children sprawled upon layers of sleeping bags. The morning sun always seemed to rise too early, to tease our eyelids and dare us to waken. Oh what a sight we must have been for those early morning visitors. What thoughts they must have entertained as they knocked on our door, “Those crazy Rauch kids, always up to something?”

We were directors and actors as we practiced plays on that front porch. With tales of monsters that were meant to thrill, the old porch transformed wonderfully into our stage, complete with drop down curtains.We ventured into our neighborhood and sold tickets to fill the mismatched chairs we provided for our audience.  I still can feel the coolness of that old white bed sheet as it was wrapped around me, the mummy of the play.  I laugh at the memory of our mother arriving home during our great production, so mortified that we dared such a scene right there on  Main Street for the whole town to see. “Those crazy Rauch kids, what are they up to now?”.

Ah and the “hippies”. My parents simply saw someone else’s children needing shelter and a meal and of course we took them in. Those young hitchhikers sat on our front porch, played their guitars and sang their counterculture songs to us. The naysayers must have got their eyes full and shook their heads. But did they know the things these young people brought to us? Did they know how kind and respectful they were to my parents, how patient they were as they taught us kids to macramé belts and necklaces? No those who weren’t present will never understand how those long haired strangers enriched our lives. “Those crazy Rauch’s, always bringing strange people to our town!”

I remember Sheri, the little girl from St. Louis. She was one of the inner city children that came to stay with us in the summer to get a taste of rural life. As I sat on the front porch playing jacks, she skipped around me singing a little song. Sara sponda Sara Sponda Sara sponda Ret Set Set..Ah do re o Ado re boom di o..a do re boom de ret set set ..a do re boom de o….How that song echoes when I see little children playing on the streets. In the civil rights turmoil of the 60’s and 70’s I know that the people drove by thinking “Those crazy Rauchs, bringing “Blacks” to our little town!”

A memory comes to me now of our beloved porch swing upon that front porch. How can a couple of chains and some old wood slats cause such merriment?  The rides we took, the places we went, the stories that were created to the rhythm and creak of that old swing. Big brother, George,  sat in the middle, reached his hands to the chains and pulled hard to flip us backwards. With peals of laughter,  we would swing upside down. Games were invented and turns were taken, pushing and swinging as high as the old ledge would let us. “Those crazy Rauch kids, they’re gonna get hurt!”

And then the evenings would come. And mom and dad and sometimes a big sibling would come out to join us. Here and there a bike rider or walker would stop to chat for a while, crickets and cicadas serenading their banter. Quiet as ghosts, we would slink out to the yard,  catching the fireflies and setting them free again. The sun would sink, the breeze would blow soft and for a while everything  in our little world would feel just right.  “Those crazy Rauchs, aren’t they something?”

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